It was about five in the morning when I entered my father's
house. I told the servants not to disturb the family, and went
into the library to attend their usual hour of
rising.

Six years had elapsed, passed as a dream but for one indelible trace, and
I stood in the same place where I had last embraced my father before my
departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and venerable parent! He still remained to
me. I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood over the
mantel-piece. It was an historical subject, painted at my father's desire,
and represented Caroline Beaufort in an agony of despair, kneeling by the coffin of her dead
father. Her garb was rustic, and her cheek pale; but there was an air of
dignity and beauty, that hardly permitted the sentiment of pity. Below
this picture was a miniature of William; and my tears flowed when I looked
upon it. While I was thus engaged, Ernest entered: he had heard me arrive,
and hastened to welcome me. He expressed a sorrowful delight to see me:
"Welcome, my dearest Victor," said he. "Ah! I wish you had come three
months ago, and then you would have found us all joyous and delighted.
You come to us now to share a misery which nothing can alleviate; yet your
presence will, I hope, revive our father, who seems sinking under his
misfortune; and your persuasions will induce poor Elizabeth to cease her
vain and tormenting self-accusations. -- Poor William! he was our darling
and our pride!"

Tears, unrestrained, fell from my brother's eyes; a sense of mortal agony
crept over my frame. Before, I had only imagined the wretchedness of my
desolated home; the reality came on me as a new, and a not less terrible,
disaster. I tried to calm Ernest; I enquired more minutely
concerning my father, and her I named cousin.